


going on thirty

by ok_thanks



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 13 going on 30 AU basically, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7317502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ok_thanks/pseuds/ok_thanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s November 4th, 2027 and Dylan Strome is the captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	going on thirty

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 1 night and no one edited it so understand that.

Dylan wakes up in Toronto and everything is fine. Everything’s fantastic really. He's got tickets to the Blue Jays game and no immediate responsibilities and he's fucking stoked. He's elated even, thank you very much Mitch and his Word of the Day app. Rapturous, if he's feeling especially exuberant.

 

Dylan eases through the day, all thoughts of the Otters and Coyotes pushed from his mind. It's just him. Connor’s in Russia or China or God knows. Mitch is busy winning the memorial cup still, basking in his million awards. If Dylan checks the Knights Twitter after games that's for him to know, and if he streams the games sometimes before bed. Well, that's nobody else's business.

He's in Toronto and it's fine, it's great. His best friend just won a gold medal and his- whatever Mitch is, is hoisting the Memorial Cup. Dylan’s played exactly 0 NHL games and even his OHL team is out. So it's fine, really. It’s great.

 

He goes to sleep past Midnight, ESPN droning on in the background.

  
  


Dylan wakes up in Toronto. It's not uncommon.

 

Dylan wakes up to the soft pitter patter of a shower running, the gentle hum of someone nearby.

It's easy to recognize, this is not Dylan’s house. This isn't the apartment he rented with Connor for the summer. This is a nice, HGTV decorated home with a killer city view.

 

In a moment of genius brain to mouth connection, Dylan says, “Oh, fuck?”

 

The shower stops. Dylan is still puddled in covers, dumbfounded, when someone - a very tall, tan, pretty _someone_ \- comes out of the bathroom. There's a towel low on his hips, a cross around his neck, and a better haircut on his head.

“Hey, you're awake finally.”

“Hi,” Dylan chokes out. The towel jostles slightly and there's bruises low on his hips. The man smirks, catching Dylan’s gaze.

“Lazy morning?”

Dylan hums approvingly. “Have you seen my phone?”

The man points to the dresser across the room and Dylan moves wordlessly, turning his back as he changes. The phone is lighter in his hands, similar in shape, but sleeker and higher quality. He should check the date. Logically, Dylan knows he should check the date and see what year it is, what he missed, how any of whatever is happening is even possible. Dylan presses down on the home button after a long moment. The phone’s dead. The man snorts.

“I told you to plug it in last night.”

“Ha ha,” Dylan huffs. It's hard to open his mouth and contain his thoughts. He can't ask about Wheat Kings stats or the Rio Olympics or summer plans (for 2016). Dylan doesn't know the playing field.

 

He hides out in the bathroom. Afterall, no one said you need tact to be a professional hockey player. Dylan’s phone, new and threatening, is charging slowly on the double vanity. His and His sinks, isn’t that nice. Dylan feels sick to his stomach.

 

He’ll leave when it hits 25%. He’ll grab his charger, wallet, and shoes and hide out somewhere quiet. Somewhere that isn’t here. Then Dylan will sort this out and cry and probably call Connor. That worked for him in high school and frankly, right now he is _desperate_.

 

Dylan stays in the shower for so long that the water turns cold. He towels off reluctantly and goes through breathing exercises. _Exhale through your mouth, inhale through your nose. Exhale again, longer this time. Repeat._ Mrs. McDavid’s voice rings familiarly in his head. Breathe out, then in, then out. Dylan stands idle at the door running through the motions. Out, in, out.

He opens the door. Out of the bathroom, into the bedroom, breathe out again.

 

The room is empty, sheets strewn carelessly across the bed. Everything looks nice and expensive. Solid, silver frames are hung on the wall. They’re model shots, because oh, yeah, Dylan has a trophy boyfriend who models for a living. And they live together in a stupidly nice Toronto penthouse.

 

Dylan’s boyfriend, whose name is apparently _Colin_ , is working out in the living room. Dylan watches curiously from the doorway. The rest of the apartment matches the bedroom. It’s clean and designer. Everything is muted blue or grey, pristine and fresh. There’s an expansive leather couch in front of the TV and a beautiful, seemingly unattainable boy doing pushups on the floor. It feels like a dream Dylan had a thousand times in high school; young, dumb, and wanting.

 

But Dylan is older now, he can feel it in his bones. His face is harder, his body more built than before. He’s not some dumb high schooler anymore, that’s for sure.

 

Colin stops doing push ups and settles back on his feet, his eyes roaming over Dylan.

“You’re going out like that?” There’s obvious disapproval dripping from his voice. Dylan’s heart starts thumping nervously.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s November, Dylan. You’re going to catch a cold if you wear shorts and no sweater.”

“Oh,” Dylan hum. Colin smiles reassuringly and heads for the bedroom. He leans in for a kiss and Dylan nearly sprints away, hastily heading for the front door, phone in hand and buzzing loudly.

“Gotta take this,” He excuses himself.

 

William Nylander is calling his phone. Dylan is maybe not as surprised as he should be.

“Hey man-”

“What the fuck, Dylan?” William cuts off.

“What?”

“Are you hungover?”

“No?”

“ _No?_ ” William repeats.

“No.” Dylan reaffirms.

“Then you better have a good excuse as to why we’re late to practice. I’m downstairs.” William hangs up then and leaves Dylan alone.

Colin is in the room again, fully clothed now. He’s wearing a tight suit and dress shoes and Dylan really isn’t equipped to handle any of this.

“That was William, I gotta go.”

Colin pouts and Dylan feels unnerved in every bone in his body. He says goodbye and he shoves his feet into sneakers and grabs a jacket from the closet before darting outside. The elevator is empty until he reaches the tenth floor. A short, mousy boy shuffles in, bundled head to toe in thick winter clothes.

“I like your hat,” Dylan’s says. It’s a Leafs beanie with a dark blue pom at the top.

The kid gapes in response and Dylan worries he’s said something wrong when the kid smiles, bright and utterly pleased. “You’re Dylan Strome!”

“Yea, buddy.”

“You’re my _neighbor_. That’s so cool.”

“I’m Dylan,” he says despite the obvious.

“I know. I’m Jack.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jack.” Dylan smiles sweetly and startles when the elevator doors open beside him. He can see Will from the lobby, standing impatiently, expensive car sitting in the street.

“I have to go, Jack. Have a good day.”

“Thanks! Win tomorrow night, please!” Jack shouts, heading towards the mailboxes.

 

William is not as impressed with Dylan as Jack was.

“We are so late, bro.”

“I know,” Dylan apologies. He does not know.

 

Dylan uses the car ride to catch himself up. He doesn’t usually wake up having skipped 11 years of his life. Because, okay - when Dylan went to sleep last night he was 19 and lonely and now he’s 30 and has a super model boyfriend and William Nylander as a friend and chauffeur.

 

His phone, partially charged, sits in his hand like a ticking time bomb. His background is, unsurprisingly, the Toronto skyline. William raises his eyebrows at Dylan skeptically.

“You waiting on a call?”

“Kind of,” Dylan lies. He’s afraid of what he’ll find when he unlocks the phone.

It’s been years, literal years, but Dylan’s passcode has remained the same. _1993_. His chest tightens involuntarily as he punches in the digits.

 

There are 5 contacts listed in Dylan’s speed dial, ranking in this order: Mom, Dad, Connor, Ryan, the chinese restaurant downtown. Dylan has over 500 contacts in his phone but none of them belong to Mitch. There are no texts, no calls, no emails from him. There are no pictures of his smile in Dylan’s camera roll, no photos of Dylan’s arm slung around Mitch’s neck. There’s nothing.

 

Dylan is stuck in a trance when William pulls into the Air Canada Centre’s parking garage. Getting out the car is a practiced motion he does without thought. Will pulls him aside before he walks away and places a hand on Dylan’s arm to ask: “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Dylan’s throat constricts and he shakes his head. “Think it’s a stomach thing. I’ll go see the trainers instead of skating.”

William looks him in the eyes, dark and serious before saying: “Okay, sounds good.”

 

Dylan lied. He doesn’t go see the trainers, he ducks into the first empty conference room he sees and draws all the blinds. He slumps against the wall and reads. He reads Wikipedia entries, beat articles, text threads, blog posts; anything he can find about the years he missed.

 

It’s a lot, but it’s not everything. Dylan doesn’t know where Mitch is or how he lost him and it sits heavy and intrusive in the pit of his stomach.

 

Dylan exhales shakily. Inhale. Exhale again, longer this time. He runs himself through the practice until his chest feels less like it has been filled with lead. _Man up_ , Dylan tells himself, _you have responsibilities now._

 

It’s November 4th, 2027 and Dylan Strome is the captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

  
  


Tracking down Mitch is going to be hard. It’s been 12 years since the Leafs drafted him and Nylander and Kapanen are the only guys from back then remaining on the roster. Will greets him warmly, landing a supportive pat to his shoulder.

“Feeling better?”

“Definitely,” Dylan lies again.

Kasperi is not as open with Dylan. His lips remain tightly closed and his face intentionally blank.

“So I have a question,” Dylan begins. Will cocks his head to the side as to say _go on_.

“Do either of you have Marns address?”

Kasperi’s face sheds to one of pure disgust. He narrows his eyes coldly at Dylan and replies in a sharp, calculated tone. “I do, but not for you.”

“Kasp-” Will starts but Kapanen turns on his heel and leaves before either can get a word in edgewise.

“Sorry,” Dylan sighs.

“He’s overreacting.” Will says.

“No he’s not. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’ll give it to you, but don’t make me regret it.”

Dylan thanks God for William Nylander.

 

Dylan takes a cab to Mitch’s apartment. The driver sees Dylan and says “Holy shit, man,” then proceeds to recount how awesome it was to see the Leafs raise the cup. Because oh, yeah, Dylan is a three time Stanley Cup champion now. Go figure. Dylan tips him heavily and signs a napkin. He’s not used to this kind of attention and recognition.

 

He knows when he buzzes in that saying it’s him would warrant instant rejection, so he lies again. Mitch’s voice scratches over the static and asks, “Who?”

“Flower delivery!” Dylan attempts to disguise his voice. He can’t handle coming all this way to get shut down.

“Um, okay. Come up.”

 

Mitch lives on the third floor of a very cute apartment complex that is painted baby blue. The paint on his door is chipped where Dylan knocks. As soon as the door opens, Mitch’s face turns drops. He eyes Dylan warily and sighs loudly, shaking Dylan to his core.

 

They used to be best friends, almost something more than that. But now, years later, Dylan is standing at Mitch’s door like a love sick puppy and the shocked, disgusted eyes are understandable.

 

“Why are you here, Dylan?” Mitch is cold. Dylan takes him in. He is older and built in a way Dylan has never seen him, but he is so, so beautiful. Dylan feels nauseated again.

“I-” Dylan stops. Why is he here? He didn’t think he would actually get this far.

“Can I come in?”

“Why not.”

Mitch’s apartment is cozy. There’s photos covering the walls. Two big ones hang next to the TV. The first is Mitch lifting the Cup with Connor, 2021 STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS! Hats fitted on both their heads. They’re smiling wildly and Dylan knows about that day. Dylan never went to Connor’s cup day celebration because Mitch was going to be there.

 

The second photo is from Mitch’s graduation. Connor is beside Mitch’s parents and they’re all smiling sweetly. Dylan missed that day too.

 

“Sorry to show up out of the blue.”

“It’s okay,” Mitch lies.

“Not really.”

“Dylan, you look really bad. Are you okay?” That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it.

“No, I think I should go. Sorry,” Dylan pushes towards and door and Mitch sighs.

“Dylan,” Mitch pleads quietly. “You look bad. Let me give you a ride at least.”

 

Mitch drives Dylan home with the scrambled directions he can supply. He doesn’t ask, but Mitch follows Dylan up to his apartment anyways.

 

“Holy shit,” Mitch says. “This is a really nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“So this is what NHL money buys you, huh?” Dylan’s face falls and Mitch snorts.

“That was a joke, Dylan. You can laugh.”

“Oh,”

 

Mitch is scanning the books in the living room and Dylan stands hesitantly watching. Colin is nowhere to be found, but Dylan isn’t mourning that.

“Whatcha reading?” Dylan asks.

“Just looking at photos.”

 

When Dylan walks over Mitch is holding the frame delicately.

“That’s when I was named captain?”

“Yep,” Mitch’s voice is strained when he answers. “And that’s when you won the cup the first time, and that’s the second, and that’s the third.” Mitch gestures to the other frames on the shelf. He looks tired and at a loss for words. Dylan offers up only silence.

“Listen, Dylan, why am I here? Why did you come see me. Why now?”

“We’re friends, right?”

Mitch makes a throaty, hurt sound. “Dylan,”

“Mitch, what happened?”

“You got everything you wanted.”

“I meant with us."

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that.” Mitch crosses his arms defensively.

 

Dylan’s phone buzzes with a notification and Mitch sighs. It’s a reminder: _Presser tonite downtown in an hour._

 

“I have to leave soon, I have a thing.”

“No, right.” Mitch digs his hands into his pockets. “I’m just going to head out.”

“It was good to see you,” Dylan says earnestly.

“I guess it wasn’t the worst.”

  


Dylan has never been to a party this lavish. There’s champagne going around the room and crab appetizers with complicated names on display. Dylan thinks he sees Drake at one point, and that really seals the deal.

“I am having a fantastic time,” He tells Will.

“I can tell, buddy.”

“I think I saw Drake.”

Will laughs happy and loud and Dylan smiles triumphantly. It’s the first time anyone close to him has seemed genuinely happy to be in his presence.

 

After a few hours and a few drinks, Dylan excuses himself. The air is crisp outside; cold but not frosty. It’s pleasant. Dylan greets everyone he passes and it’s exhilarating. He’s 30 years old and a 3 time Stanley Cup champion, captain of his hometown team, and a two time gold medalist. It’s everything he’s always dreamed of. Well, almost everything.

 

“Dylan!” Mitch is across the street shouting at him.

“Marns!”

“Oh god, that’s a nickname you didn’t have to revive.” he laughs despite himself and Dylan’s stomach flips. “How was your event tonight? Very fancy, I presume.”

“But of course. I think I saw Drake.”

Mitch laughs loudly at that and Dylan beams. “You should come to our game tomorrow night.”

Mitch rubs his arms hesitantly. “I don’t know, Dylan. I’m not exactly into that anymore.”

“I’ll put tickets under your name just incase.” Mitch smiles tentatively

“What are you doing here all dressed up?”

“I was at dinner with my girlfriend,” Mitch shrugs easily.

“Girlfriend?”

“Fiance actually,”

Dylan’s stomach sinks. _Oh_.

“Wow!” Dylan says. “Wow,”

“That’s her,”

Dylan can see his girlfriend walking towards them. She’s short and beautiful and everything Mitch deserves. Dylan really needs to leave.

“I have to go,” Dylan says. “I have to get back to my event.”

“Oh,” Mitch frowns a little, Dylan doesn’t know what that means. “I’ll see you later?”

“Sure!” Dylan says, all but running in the opposite direction. His legs burn with exertion and his heart aches.

 

Dylan has always liked Mitch. Even when they were younger and thrived off the other’s annoyance, Dylan liked Mitch. He’s smart, he’s funny, and he’s the only person Dylan let drive his car. There’s something between them that has Dylan hooked. It makes him gooey and sappy and dumb.

 

Dylan has always liked Mitch, but when they got older Dylan really _liked_ Mitch.

 

It was never the right time to tell him. There was the prom and graduation and the combine and the draft. Then it really wasn't the right time. Arizona is a long way from Toronto. Dylan knows that, Mitch knows that. So nothing has ever happened, but there’s always been a hint, a rumor of something more. Dylan wants it badly.

 

But now he’s waited 13 years and Mitch has moved on. Mitch is _engaged!_ The future is just fan-fucking-tastic, isn’t it?

  
  


Dylan learns that future him isn’t a very nice person.

 

When he gets home he calls Connor, speed dial contact #3. Connor is obviously exhausted when he answers.

“Dylan? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, is this a bad time?”

“Kind of, I just got home from a game.”

“Sorry to bother you, Con. I’ll let you sleep.”

“You’re not bothering me. I just haven’t heard from you in a few weeks is all. I missed you.” Dylan feels guilt swirling inside him.

“Sorry about that, Davo. I’ve been kind of shitty, haven’t I?”

Connor laughs heartily. “At least you’re honest about it.”

“Can I call you again tomorrow? When you’re not about to drop dead?”

Connor laughs again and Dylan’s chest aches. Connor’s been his best friend since before he can remember, but he hasn’t been a very good one lately, that much is evident.

“Hey, I love you, Davo.”

“Love you too, Stromer. I’m glad you called, really. I’ve missed you since you got all distant.”

“How long has that been?”

“Couple years maybe,” Connor yawns into the mike. “It’s okay though.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay, Dylan. I’m glad you called now. I missed hearing your stupid voice all the time.”

  
  


Mitch doesn’t come to the game but Dylan didn’t expect him to. That’s a lot to ask of Mitch.

 

Mitch does go to eat with Dylan afterwards, though. That has to count for something. It’s nothing fancy, just a diner that’s low key enough for Dylan to not get recognized, which he’s learned is a problem when you captained the Leafs to 3 Cups.

 

They go for a walk when they finish. Mitch’s apartment is close by and Dylan’s tired, but he doesn’t want to say goodbye to Mitch yet. So they walk.

“Hold on a second,” Dylan says, sidestepping to a convenience store. Mitch watches, bemused when Dylan exits.

“A gift for you,” Dylan offers, Skittles bag in hand.

Mitch groans, “That was years ago, Dyls. _Years_.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t eat Skittles anymore, because I thought I saw some red wrappers in your apartment.”

“You’re so nosey still. And a pest.”

“Takes one to know one.” Dylan sticks his tongue out and leads them into a park.

 

“I came here before my first playoff game,” Mitch says quietly. He settles on a swing and sways gently. Dylan takes the swing beside Mitch and hums.

“I was so nervous,” Mitch continues. “I thought I was going to throw up on the ice and Giroux would kick my ass.”

Dylan snorts. “That’s ridiculous. If anyone, Simmonds would have kick your ass. Easily too, you were scrawny.”

“Gee thanks, Dylan. Always so supportive.”

They swing quietly before Mitch breaks the silence.

“Remember how Connor had that swing set in his backyard when we were kids?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Think you can still beat me?”

Dylan huffs. “Any Day, Marner. Any day.”

“Then we’re on,” Mitch smirks. He pumps his legs harder to pick up speed and Dylan follows suit.

 

Mitch counts aloud, _one, two, three! Jump, Stromer!_ And Dylan flies out of the seat and digs his heel into the gravel. Mitch lands in a heap in front of him.

 

“Looks like I won,” Mitch gloats.

“Looks like you did.” Mitch smiles at him, sugar sweet and infectious and every bone in Dylan’s body _wants_.

 

In hindsight, kissing Mitch was not the best idea.

 

“Dylan,” He breathes out. Mitch’s hand is firm on Dylan’s chest, keeping distance between them. “You can’t do this. You can’t fucking do this.”

“I know,”

“Do you?” Mitch shouts. “Dylan, I was in love with you for years and you did nothing. Until you pop back into my life unexpectedly and kiss me. I’m engaged.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I can’t believe you,” Mitch mourns. His head is in his hands and Dylan’s chest constricts. “After everything that’s happened, Dylan. Now?”

Dylan remains silent, sulking in regret, and fear, and feelings of self pity.

  
  


So this is what happened.

 

11 years ago Dylan fell asleep as an Arizona Coyotes prospect. In 2016, he and Mitch started their rookie seasons. And they tore it up. Mitch scored a hat trick and notched crazy game winners through Carey Price and Ben Bishop and hit all his bonuses. Dylan faired well in Glendale. He had Domi and Duclair and Dvorak and they lit it up. Dylan scored and scored and scored. Then he scored some more. At the end of the year Dylan won the Calder and Mitch finished third, no hard feelings.

 

Things were great, fucking fantastic even. The Coyotes and Leafs made the playoffs and the hype, though short lived, fueled them into their third seasons. Dylan was an All Star. He was out drinking with PK Subban and Jonathan Toews and life was really, really fucking great. Until it wasn’t.

  


There were contracts to be signed at the close of their third season. Toronto wanted Mitch, but they wanted Dylan too. 2019 was a homecoming. Arizona got Auston Matthews as their hometown hero and Toronto got Dylan. It was so easy, so perfectly aligned. And then everything got fucked up.

 

Toronto’s final regular season game was against Philadelphia and Mitch, Mitch was on fire. He had two goals and assist before the third period had even started.

 

The hit was accidental, that’s what stung the most. Mitch was flying on a breakaway and a defender trailed behind him. He caught an edge and checked Mitch hard, headfirst into the boards and just like that it was all over. Mitch broke his arm in two places, but it was the concussion that took him out.

 

There are two famous photos from that night, the pictures all the newspapers and magazines printed on their spreads. The first is of Kasper kneeling beside Mitch, clutching his good hand tightly and holding back tears. The second is of the whole team on the ice after the game, their sticks held up for Mitch. Kasper is crying in that one. Dylan’s stomach tossed looking at it.

 

Mitch was finished. The injuries and risk were too much.

 

He was going to be captain. When next season began and Dylan joined the team, Mitch was going to get the C. And then he was out and James kept the captaincy and everyone moved on. October came and Dylan was on the roster, but Mitch wasn’t. The leafs couldn’t re-sign him. Mitch was done.

 

Mitch called afterwards. He texted Dylan and DM’d and even emailed once when he felt particularly desperate and lonely. But Dylan was a brick wall. Every time he looked at Mitch there was an itch, a nagging that hooked his gut and made him queasy. Dylan shut him out and eventually Mitch stopped calling, stopped inviting himself over. That was that.

 

The next year Mitch enrolled at U of A and moved to Edmonton to be closer to Connor. Dylan heard about it in the locker room from Will, as he did most things about Mitch after the injury.

 

Connor won the cup and Dylan skipped his party because he couldn’t face Mitch. He couldn’t look Mitch in the eye and know, deep down, that Dylan got everything Mitch had ever dreamed of, everything Mitch had worked so hard for. Dylan didn’t deserve a Cup. He didn’t deserve the Conn Smythe or the Hart and he certainly doesn’t deserve Mitch.

 

Dylan deserves himself, selfish and arrogant. He deserves Mitch’s stinging rejection.

  
  


Dylan drives home to Mississauga. His mom opens the door with cautious eyes. It’s evident he hasn’t been home in a long time. Dylan holds back the tears that threaten to come.

 

He chokes out an apology and says, “Can I stay here tonight?”

 

Dylan’s room is still intact and he laughs an ugly sob at the sight of it. There’s a poster of Connor in Oiler orange on the back of his bedroom door, another one above his desk. Dylan’s eyes sting looking at his closet door. There’s a poster of Mitch, fresh faced and beautiful in the Leafs uniform taped to the wood. Dylan cries looking at it and falls motionless to the floor in a crumple.

 

Dylan cries and cries until his eyes sting and his heart feels heavy. _I’m a bad person_ , he thinks. _I have everything i’ve ever wanted, but I’m a bad person. I don’t want to be me._ Dylan falls asleep like that, curled up on his floor, glow in the dark stars illuminating the room.

  
  
  


Dylan wakes up in Toronto. Just like every other day. The first thing he notices is that he forgot to close the blinds last night. The second, is that he’s no longer thirty years old.

 

He runs to the bathroom and almost cries in relief. Dylan is young again and in his cramped rented apartment with Connor.

 

 _I have never been so happy to not be in the NHL_ Dylan thinks.

 

The third thing Dylan does is email Connor **I LOVE YOU DAVO <3 :)))))**

 

The fourth thing he does is call Mitch.

 

“Are you home?”

“Yes, but I’m sleeping all day. Please don’t interrupt that.”

“I’m already on my way over, k byeeeeeeeee”

“DYLAN-” Mitch yells into the phone but he’s already hung up and headed for the stairs.

 

Dylan gets there in 28 minutes, a new record. Mrs. Marner greets him warmly, asking about his summer and offering him drinks or a snack. He politely declines both and excuses himself upstairs.

 

Mitch is pouting in his bed, cocooned in blankets when Dylan opens the door. “It is so early.”

“It’s noon,” Dylan counters.

“I’m _tired_.”

“Sleep later, I’m here now.”

Mitch laughs and attempts to control his hair. “You are very excited, Dylan.”

“I am excited, Mitch.” Dylan is grinning, he can feel the smile overtaking his face in anticipation.

“And why is that?”

“Because I love you,” Dylan says easy as can be. “And I don’t want to be afraid to tell you that anymore.”

“Dylan,”

“And I want to win a cup with you. Or a gold medal, I’m not picky. Preferably both, though.”

“ _Dylan,_ ”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Please stop talking,” Mitch says before kissing him. “I love you too, but please stop talking.”

Dylan is okay with that.


End file.
